


Go For the Throat

by Bidawee



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Courting Rituals, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Play Fighting, Scent Marking, Scenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21270713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bidawee/pseuds/Bidawee
Summary: No one ever takes notice of your alpha dynamic [in the Czech Republic]. You’re nothing special, not unless you’re self-made and living beyond your means. Yet, reading the declaration forms for international play and seeing the big capital ‘A’ for alpha under his name, like a report card grade, makes him puff up. It’s an opportunity to reinvent himself and maybe find some value in the thing they call biology.





	Go For the Throat

**Author's Note:**

> the whole city lost power because of a wind storm so i travelled on a bus for 30 min to get to a library to post this. i hope it's worth it.
> 
> dedicated to morgan, who listened to me ramble about this for hours without complaining. you're the real MVP. here's to hoping you do great on your exam, bud!
> 
> additional warnings are in the end notes. if you are squeamish when it comes to fighting, i suggest checking it out

The first cage-fit is as much an emotional event for him as it is his parents. They both go with him downtown, to the one retail location in the city. It hides behind a grocery store, in a dim-lit corner where a laundromat used to operate. The store is empty when they arrive, the one employee walking in from the back when she hears the chime at the door.

She gives David two options: fishbowl or birdcage. David had no idea there was more than one choice, not when all of the websites, posters, and brochures for Södertälje use the same cookie-cutter helmet shapes with approved red stickers on the back. His father steps in when he sees him thinking and tells him to pick the cage. He’s biased. It’s what he wore as a kid.

The lady ends up bringing them both out to show David on his request, and the cage is indeed more iconic. The fishbowl has its charm but the visor fogs up when he breathes on it and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him look like an astronaut.

Before they take his measurements, they snap a cage over his face to use as a template. The bars reduce the world to neat square shapes. It’s kind of cool. The bulk of the wiring is present around his mouth and chin and makes him look a bit like a goalie. 

It takes a minute for his eyes to focus. The bars thin into webs, woven into the helm of his headpiece. The only immediate problem is the plastic on each side of his face, like blinders. There are tiny slits by the side, but it’s hard enough for scent to get through those openings, let alone his vision. He’s scared to take a step to the left or right, though his father tells him he’ll get used to it.

David doesn’t stay to listen to his father talk about numbers, he’s too busy studying the store selection. The room is bleached in disinfectant to scrub the alpha pheromones out of the shelf space. It’s strong, but not enough. The store’s carpet is drenched in fear. From what, he can only imagine.

He doesn’t get too far into his inspection before his father pulls him back and tries on another cage, this one with higher coverage. It’s not as heavy as the first, but it manages to have even more wires. David doesn’t like this one. Hate feels like too strong of a word. But he hates it. He’s surprised that his father picks it. He’s not going to argue with him about it and make a scene, but he can voice his displeasure in other ways.

The cage is only on for a few seconds before his father removes it, probably because he can smell the spike in David’s scent. Incensed. No words come from father to son but before they leave, he feels the hand on the back of his neck. He sinks into it. It’s warm. 

With that out of the way, he signs himself over to the beast, with a few weeks worth of Swedish phrases tucked under his arm to slick the passage. A lot’s about to be different, now that he’s going away. It’s going to be weird not having his dad around. David’s used to his scent taking possession of the house. He might not have that in Sweden.

That’s because, in the Czech Republic, the ratio of alphas to omegas is 10:1. Alphas are everywhere, on every street corner. When you can’t see them, you smell them. He has no idea how different it will be in another country; not that he isn’t aware of how they earned the stereotype of being a run-down alpha den thanks their dynamic imbalance. It might do him some good to be in a country where there are more omegas around. Of the few he’s known in his lifetime--living up north from the labour pools that work at the chemical factory--they always had an air to them that made him want to be in their presence. They have so much character. It makes him wish he was able to walk in their shoes for a week.

No one ever takes notice of your alpha dynamic here. You’re nothing special, not unless you’re self-made and living beyond your means. Yet, reading the declaration forms for international play and seeing the big capital ‘A’ for alpha under his name, like a report card grade, makes him puff up. It’s an opportunity to reinvent himself and maybe find some value in the thing they call biology.

Some places in the world are predisposed to have a large omega population. Just as they’ve made a name for themselves as a blond capital of the world, Sweden happens to be one of those countries. So yeah: William Nylander is not the only omega he meets at their first locker room meeting. He  _ is _ , however, the most distinctive. Not just in face, but in name.

As David finds out, there’s a whole different culture in Sweden surrounding omegas. Michael Nylander and his biology go hand in hand, up to his success in the big leagues. It’s one thing he’s proud to see in his sons, William and Alex. That much is apparent from the first day. Michael expects only the best from the people around him and that extends from everything to the way his son’s skates are tied to his choice in linemate and friend. 

If you came to Sweden and only saw to the Nylander family and their fortune, you might think that the common Czech belief that omegas are only born into wealth is true. It’s a saying that’s sweetened by conspiracy theories and follows the same pseudoscience that tells pregnant women they can change the sex of their unborn child using their food intake. David knows these predispositions well; it made it easy for people to take one look at his family’s class and then draw conclusions from it. It exists in Sweden too, just the people are a lot less confrontational about it. Michael makes that very clear, from the way he eyes David as he’s unloading what equipment he has into his cubby space. 

Poor. He thinks David’s a poor old alpha pup, whelped from nothing. It’s not new, David’s used to it. He’s got better things to do than worry about what someone else’s father thinks of him.

For all his hatred of stereotypes though, he loves the things that make William look so...omega. Science would say omega, alpha, whatever your leaning is, it has no effect on your physical features. David would say that Willy is everything omega and more. He’s got a nice jawline--still developing, mind you--and a head of thick blond hair, a lighter shade than David’s own dirty colour. He smells like something new you find on a store display at a high end mall.

Will wonders ever cease, Willy is a great player too. He makes it look easy. Not that David ever fell out of love with hockey but this makes it official. There’s no coming back from playing with William Nylander. They might not speak the same language but they play the same hockey, and it’s good hockey.

In between long bus rides taking them from city to city, the three of them talk: David, Willy, and Google Translate. Willy gives him unofficial English and Swedish lessons and David repays him with play techniques he’s picked up on over the years. It makes Willy play a lot more like an alpha: with some whip and lash. Like ambidextrous people and their ability to use both hands, it gives Willy an edge that most omegas wouldn’t have.

With the draft in their eyes and on their tongues, they speculate. It callouses a lot of what they hear from their coach and from the other players, who they stopped listening to for advice a long time ago. This is reserved seating for them and for who they will be, despite their differences.

Neither of them talks about the fact that if all goes to plan, the chances they end up on the same team are slim to none.

A few weeks into the season they come in with helmet reinforcements, all because a few minors up north got into a nasty fight when the club organizers had their backs turned. It’s a gel mouth-guard that comes with pockets meant to sheath canines if they try to emerge. Because of the plastic section just above the chin that covers the bottom lip, it’s almost impossible to hold a conversation with another player on the ice. It may as well be those muzzles they put on criminals with how it pulls his teeth back and tries to straighten him out. And even with all that, it wouldn’t be so bad if he could remove the helmet himself--if he didn’t need one of the assistant coaches to unbuckle the clasp for him, like he’s five.

The new helmets and cages are meant for young, presented alphas: the unruly ones who are teething. When he first got to Sweden, David didn’t exactly fit the category. He doesn’t know what the big deal is until his front canines grow, in early November. They make him grateful for the new plastic and silicone they have in his mouth, as it’s something to fasten his teeth into to stop the ache from burning a hole in the front of his head.

Willy will know the same pain too, when he gets his wisdom teeth in years later. For now, he’s both a shoulder to cry on and to bite into. 

David keeps himself gentle and the marks faint, but the mound of skin heals weird. The discolouration draws the eye to the baldness of Willy’s shoulders, but no one seems to notice the big white splotch where it should be cream. David worries about more than just that--his teeth are growing in sharp and it must hurt--but Willy insists time and time again that it’s alright, sentiments that David is sure would not be shared by his father.

The helmet cages are great for other things too, a measure that prevents them from getting their teeth lodged in each other on the ice when their frustrations get the better of them. It offers some protection when the older omegas--around eighteen and who have already presented--skate by and there’s the urge to chase after them. They smell nice.

Willy laughs when David tells him. But then, all is forgiven with a burst of scent. Sweet: of coconut, citrus, and oakmoss. As sweet as a lozenge you suck on when your throat is sore. David’s mind goes blank when it happens, as he carves a space out for himself beside Willy. 

Most omegas are really sensitive on the topic of heat. Willy is the exception. He hasn’t even presented yet but he’s got a lot of opinions about it: what are more or less recaps of good plays he’s heard from over the years. His father’s time in the national leagues has given Willy a plethora of stories to talk about, each one buttered with detail until the images in David’s head are as clear as the memory of last week. 

This time, he’s on a tangent about courting fights. David is trying to pack his clothes a night in advance so they don’t have to wake up early to catch the bus in the morning. It’s safe to say he’s not as invested as Willy is, who is lying back on the unmade sheets, combing his fingers through his damp hair. The smell of hotel soap disguises his scent.

“One time he was in pre-heat before a game and he had this rookie alpha walk up--”

David nods as he’s talking, trying to follow along with his very basic understanding of the language. He shoves his sweatpants into the corner, by his boxers.

“--he ended up almost putting the kid in hospital. He broke his arm!”

“Wow.” David has trouble thinking of things to say to him. He doesn’t feel educated enough to pass judgement, good or bad, on an omega like Michael.

“He showed me too.” Willy‘s face brightens. “I can fight very well.”

“He show you?” 

“Yeah! Maybe I can show you what he taught me?” His touch is feather-light on David’s left arm. Testing.

David giggles to himself. “I like my arm.” He pushes Willy’s hand away. “No thank you.”

He’s seen omegas smaller than Willy throw alphas into mud patches on the side of the road when they go into heat. Omegas, they are as pretty as they are dangerous. Willy is no exception. If David lets him through once, he’ll keep coming back.

Nothing remarkable happens the day that Willy presents. David wakes up as normal, only with a bad taste in his mouth. There’s no games or practice to go to, and the rest of the team seems occupied. Not that he’d know: he has yet to invest in a phone. On days like this, Willy is his company of choice.

He knows the path up the hill well, even if the street signs are hard to read. The roads are sanded and it’s not even that cold outside. His ears are fine with just a hat on. He shoves his hands into his pockets, nodding at the other pedestrians. This is ordinary, a weekly, if not daily, occurrence. 

All of that changes once he finds himself outside the Nylander residence. There are about five cars parked in the driveway, each a different make and colour. The people inside sit on a backdrop of bright, amber colouring. It looks like the whole family is here. David can see Willy’s younger brother and sisters on the living room couch, but as for his linemate, he’s nowhere to be seen. 

David brings a knuckle up to knock on the door, only for Michael to be up in his face before his fingers can curl. He shuts the door behind him. 

“You need to leave,” is all he says. The words come once in Swedish, then again in English when David doesn’t move.

“Is William okay?” The words just make it out of his mouth when he feels the hard scent slithering down the back of his throat. 

Even without reference, he knows what it is. It’s thick. It clots in his nose and won’t leave him alone. It forces its way in. Even with what must be dozens of omegas together inside, the intensity of Willy burns through the smokescreen.

He knows, from what meagre sex-ed they got, that a first heat is a flash in a pan. In spite of that, his whole body burns. How can the people inside dance and laugh with it in the air, like a pathogen?

Michael doesn’t have to say anything more for him to understand. David gets out of there. He runs, hacking up God knows what in the rush of air that leaves his body. His muscles bunching together, creating a defence that it expects an omega to tear through. There’s a phantom pain in his left arm that answers the call.

It makes sense that the Nylander family would reject him. They never say it to his face, but he knows. He’s experienced being called a mutt, a street alpha, and a cur all his life. Alex Nylander slips up once at dinner--David doesn’t remember what the joke was but he remembers the shame that blots big red splotches onto Willy’s face. He knows that, judging by the others’ reactions, this is commonplace. Willy is only now taking offence because David’s there and they’re friends. If he didn’t say something, it would be wrong.

The day after Willy’s heat, when events come clearer to David, he cuts his hair with a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer. It will grow back quickly, no doubt about that, but it’s much less about his appearance than it is trying to send a message to the Nylander family. The thin strands of hair fall in a circle around his boots. The wind takes most of them away; tiny snippets of gold colouring that only a camera could capture in motion.

Monday morning, David keeps to himself. A few people comment on his new look but their words don’t mean much to him. He purposely laces his skates facing the rink entrance and not the door to the hallway; to get his hopes up is one thing but to set himself up for disappointment is another.

He isn’t expecting Willy to show up but he does...with his father in tow. Michael connects eyes with David and understanding passes between them, however shallow it may be. It could be cocky alpha confidence on his side, but he doesn’t bend under the weight of Michael. He has no interest in trying to fight. He just wants Michael to know he’s trying. He’s not the star omega linemate his son should be playing with, but he can be enough. If Michael lets him.

Willy, disregarding everything he’s probably been told, walks over when he sees him. He runs his hands through David’s hair. “You look good,” is all he says. His scent is recognizable but with a new nakedness. There’s no more baby fat to it. It’s been trimmed.

“Thanks.” David’s throat feels dry.

He can’t get much else in. Willy is running on the late end of things and needs to suit up. David is already ready. He’s on the ice a minute later, the sensation of wind pushing through the bars familiar. 

One of the three other alphas on the team gets the jump on Willy mid-practice and just barely walks away without lashes on his cheek. Ironically, his cage is what protects him. Willy isn’t nearly as cautious around David as he is with the other two, but he might change his opinion if he could see David’s emerging canines, encased in a silicon cocoon.

Michael attends almost every game, occasionally lacing up the skates himself to play on the wings with his son. When he does, it’s the absolute worst. David spends the entire time trying not to fuck up, only to have it happened anyway. It’s exhausting to have to keep trying to prove yourself. 

There comes a point when he realizes it’s inevitable: some people just think of him as less. He can try, but it won’t be enough. Either he plays the part of alpha and he’s doomed from birth to be just another tail-chaser, or he loses what little respect his dynamic brings and tries something new. Regardless of what he chooses, he’s a loser.

But if Michael thinks that David’s just trying to get with his son for a boost in public opinion or God forbid because he wants something pretty on one arm, he’s wrong. 

The scabs of innocence peel away from the skin. David gets himself moved from their line. His teeth stop hurting. His hair curls around his ears again. He starts trying out new ways to tape his stick and begins to take walks by himself, going through the process of trial and error as he tries to figure out how to speak Swedish with the locals. Once he escapes their world, the hockey world, it becomes a lot harder to meet common ground. You can’t speak with your actions, you have to use words. He has to get over a lot of embarrassment before he can do something as simple as order coffee, but it happens. 

It must set something into motion. Willy gives him these droopy looks for a long time until one day he walks in and his father does not follow him. He sits in his stall and gets ready for practice, on his own. Only once they’re getting onto the ice does he catch up with David.

“Where he go?” David finds himself asking. “Your pappa.”

Willy says nothing. It looks like David’s going to have to pry his mouth open with both hands to get anything out of him. Not that he wants to.

Sure enough, Michael is back in the stands, where he belongs. He becomes just another spectator, easy to block out as they go into scrimmages. Finally, David can do what he does best. It’s a relief to pick those petals, to see the blond head of hair fly by him. 

The Nylander house’s new rules say that when friends are over the door has to be open. According to Willy, that means the door is a third of the way closed with a small column that lets the outside see in.

They sit on the carpet and lean back on the wooden frame, trying to get comfortable. The room’s smell has changed and it isn’t going away. It’s like when he would visit old relatives and the room would have a pervasive, old odour his nose couldn’t shake. It’s that, but it’s a good smell, only the huge concentration of it is making his eyes water. Willy probably can’t see why this would be a point of contention for him, as he continues as usual. There is not a hair out of place here; no indicator other than scent that tells David he has presented.

Willy has some episodes of a show he likes lined up on his computer, all in Swedish. It’s become part of a common trend of David watching shows in foreign languages in the idea that it will help him learn them. In reality, it’s an hour of him with Willy’s scent up his nose, grabbing onto the words he knows and using Willy to help explain what is going on. It’s not that he cares about the episode content of a soap opera but it keeps Willy talking and that’s a good thing.

He thinks that’s what brings them together. A lot of people in their world keep trying to bring Willy down to their level. He’s not trying to contain Willy. He’s his disciple. He enables him, as bad as that sounds. Some would say that’s the alpha in him, always the follower, never the leader.

Willy is the one that gets impatient with it first. In a low point of the episode--David can’t even recall which one--Willy decides he doesn’t want to watch anymore and begins to poke at David’s side for entertainment.

Poking progresses into tickling, right at the spot where David’s waist clinches in and he’s most sensitive. David’s leg kicks out and almost sends the computer flying. He doesn’t even realize he’s done it by the time Willy’s shut the screen and pushed the laptop away. David blinks and Willy has rolled on top of him, looking down. 

“Play with me?” he asks. His hands try to grab David’s shoulders. David puts a stop to it, grabbing him by the wrists. Willy’s sharp nails hang close to his face.

“Willy,” he tries to warn him but can’t think of the right words to say. A lot of this would be considered inappropriate. He can’t voice just a single thing that would cover it. 

Willy tires of being subtle. He bares his teeth and spreads out his fingers, as if he’s going to cut some skin. David retaliates, throwing him to the ground with the push of his legs. Willy goes still.

Panicked, David crawls over. Willy is breathing hard but without any hitch that he would have if he was trying to ride through pain. His left arm is bent when it should be limp.

He’s trying to play dead. 

It’s clear he hasn’t mastered the skill yet: his eyes open too soon and David can see his left hand curl, ready to grab a handful of the carpet to throw his body up. David’s able to lean to the side and dodge the first strike, then use the meat of his palm to press Willy’s face into the floor using the back of his head. Willy relaxes his body to make it easier.

The smell of milk gone bad enters the room and before he can crown his victory, David feels a hand stomp down on the back of his neck. The friction from the carpet burns the side of his face as he’s thrown. Air rushes up from under his belly, trapped under his ribcage when his shoulders smack the floor.

He has the foresight to stay down. Michael comes into focus, hefting Willy up. Willy slaps his hands away in what’s probably the first act of disobedience David has seen from him.

Michael turns on David, nose wrinkled as he pulls his top lip away. “Don’t you ever climb on top of him like that again, you understand?”

David is too afraid to speak. It’s Willy that answers for him. He shoots in between them both, protecting David with his body.

“We’re practicing, pappa.”

“You don’t need to be practicing yet. You know better.”

“It’s just for fun. David didn’t hurt me at all.”

“It has nothing to do with that and you know it. Keep your head up--and keep the door open, I won’t ask you again.”

Willy blows hot air out of his nostrils. They both stay apart as Michael exits the room, taking a second to swing the door open behind him. Everyone can see what is happening inside: the outcome of the intervention and how it makes David avoid Willy’s eyes. 

“I’m sorry about that,” Willy says when the coast is clear. “He’s really weird about me play fighting now.”

David’s words shake. “It’s fine.”

He’s not going to come outright and say how much he’s unnerved. He keeps himself productive and tries to slow his breathing, lifting his head up so that blood stops rushing into it.

Willy coos at him, trying to close the distance between them. David leans away. 

It hurts seeing Willy’s face pinch, but probably a lot less than being on the other end of his father’s exacting vengeance.

Alphas are stale, summer air. You don’t know how adapted your sense of smell is to alpha stink until you’re around an omega. They’re the smell of home cooking on a Sunday evening. David associates them most with when his mother would boil tangerines and syrup to try and recreate the scent at home. 

He misses her dearly, but having Willy around makes it manageable. When they’re not at practice or playing games on the road, they’re spending time with each other. And despite the negative connotations that come with it, he loves being at Willy’s house. The high ceilings in combination with the white make it resemble a cathedral. 

On occasion, David closes his eyes and pretends this is his life. It’s hard to say that a very masochistic part of his being wishes he was born an omega, so that he could live in Sweden or just be a hockey player that Michael can trust. A good, strong omega boy.

But he isn’t an omega, he’s an alpha. With the exception of his father’s deteriorating health, his life is fine the way it is. The former is a pain he maintains being in the Nylander family home, around children who see their father’s support around the clock. It would’ve been nice to look at Michael and see a father figure to support him here in Sweden, but these things rarely work out like that. The difference in status between them is too great.

At first, he looked at David with suspicion, like he thought David would do something to his son when he wasn’t looking. Now, it’s a mild annoyance. It’s as if they’ve agreed to compromise on behalf of their love of Willy. Thankfully, Michael has only caught them once--if only he knew about what transpires when he’s not home. He might be a lot less forgiving then.

Like today, for example. Willy drives David to his house to make some lunch and they end up going outside for no reason other than to splash in some of the ice puddles. It starts as Willy throwing snow at David and ends with them in a snowbank. Willy is too quick for him and before he could orient himself, he has David in a headlock. Although David has the additional muscle mass, he can’t break free.

“The trick is,” Willy says into his ear, “you gotta get your foot on my knee and then combine it with an elbow to my side when I let go. Same if I got my teeth in your arm.”

He lets David push him over and rewards it with a burst of scent. It works, largely because Willy is expecting it to happen. 

Willy’s fall is softened by the snow underneath them. His eyes are wide as he looks up at David.

“Okay mutt, get off,” Willy says.

David grins in his face. “Make me.”

“Oh, you wanna fight?” Willy twists his lower half into a pretzel shape, giving him the space he needs to slide out of David’s hold. “I’ll show you a fight.”

He uses his knees to flip David onto his side. His waist swings around. Before David even realizes it, Willy has planted his ass on his stomach and pinned him.

David surrenders to him, knowing how much Willy hates when he backs away. If it were up to Willy, they would fight until they are wearing their sweat as a layer of clothing. It’s something very specific to him. David has no intention of injuring himself trying to keep up, not when he’s seen all that he’s capable of. 

David bares his throat without a second thought. It’s Willy who shows hesitation, as if he’s going to try again for a second round. His shoulders are ribbed and the ridges of tight skin can be seen from under his light jacket. It makes him look wild. Even though he eventually relents and helps David up, the electrical current passes through David’s arm.

“Don’t tell pappa,” Willy says as they’re walking back inside. “He’ll kill me if he finds out you know all these counter moves.”

“Promise,” David replies.

It makes no difference to him. Young alphas practice. Fights come as second nature to them, to build on skills that will help them win against an omega when they get older. If someone asks, he’ll just say he learned this somewhere else. It’s peculiar, however, that Willy is so intent on being beat.

The end of the season is nearing and David knows it’s going to be the last time he sees Willy for a while. In the bustle of preparations for next year and their own ensuing greatness, it’s nice to have a night in. Michael even lets him sleep over.

He makes them camp out in the living room. It’s obvious that he’s doing it to keep an eye on them. Contrast that to Alex and his friends, all three of which are sleeping together in his bedroom upstairs without supervision.

“He only wants the best for me,” Willy says as he kneads the blankets. “If I date an alpha, that is. I mean, he married my mamma and they’re really happy with an all-omega family. So there’s that option.”

“You will marry an omega?”

Willy throws his head back. His fingers knot over his chest. “I think I’m an alpha kind of guy, really. I know pappa wants me to fight off every alpha and keep the bloodline strong but I’m not like him.” He pauses for a moment. “Don’t laugh, but you know those dumb shows about alphas fighting for ‘their true love’ and crap? There’s something about them. Makes me think.”

It takes a moment for David to realize what he’s talking about. He’s seen the shows on cable. They’re horribly exaggerated, showing omegas as face-down during their courtship as two or three alphas tear each other’s throats out above them. David can’t stomach most of them; he’ll put one on at home when friends are over so they can point and laugh for their own entertainment.

He’d never tell Willy that. Willy’s giving small pieces of himself away for David to keep. This isn’t just something that exclusive to David on the team, this is something that Michael probably doesn’t know. 

David answers him with a throaty noise. He sits back and lets Willy’s scent wash over him. Instead of words, Willy joins his mute communication. The sound of the television drones on in the background.

It’s the last normal day for a while.

Willy is like a vision, he fades away. The memories of him become dream-like. He doesn’t feel real, not when his name is called at the draft, not when he’s in blue and white. David doesn’t look at him much. Today is about his dreams and his father. It’s about succeeding when every adult in his life that wasn’t a blood relative told him he would shape up to be nothing. 

Maybe he should have looked; maybe he should have remembered. A quarterfinal loss in Södertälje should not mean the end of their friendship. But there are 885 kilometres between them now. 

Now that he’s up in the big leagues, he doesn’t need to wear a cage. They replace it with two simple bars that run over and under his lips, to stop any impulsive decisions, but nothing more. It gives him so much freedom, yet he’s left with a heavy hunk of plastic he doesn’t know what to do with. He doesn’t want to drag it all the way to Boston only to put it in a box he’ll shove in the closet. 

It’s only on his mother’s request that he ends up keeping it. She still has his father’s from the time he played, years ago. David saw it out all the time as a child but never really inspected it during the years he played Junior hockey. He was too busy making a name for himself to look back on where he came from. Maybe he thought to live in the past just wasn’t good enough.

When he comes home from training camp, he picks his father’s helmet up off the shelf. The cage is not much bigger than his. In fact, side by side, they look about the same size. 

David’s wrists hurt; he has to put both down helmets and squeeze his eyes shut to keep the tears from brimming.

Playing on opposite sides of the ice never gets easier. He sees the number twenty-nine with the surname Nylander adhered in blue underneath and feels the bile rise in his throat. It’s not eighty-eight. It’s not what he remembers. 

Even though he’s made many friends in Boston, watching the liquid camaraderie Willy has with the guys on the Leafs punctures a hole in his chest. Every time David slaps a hand down on it, the fissure opens up.

There are other acknowledgements to be made for him feeling this way. For one, he’s in Boston. A lot of what you bring to the table helps you become the person you are. Every country, league, division, and team has a different approach to what makes a pack. In Boston, your strength makes you strong. 

The first time he heard the sentence it made no sense. It said the same thing twice. Then, the words sorted themselves out. He learns that it’s okay to look; it’s okay to want. And so he doesn’t have to play the part of enforcer to scare fear into the hearts of the opposing team. He cuts his teeth and gives the people what they want to see, playing a game that earns him a lot of praise from the most unexpected of places. 

It takes Willy longer, but he gets up to the big leagues in his own due time and with a great  résumé to draw from. Even though he’s not there with him, David is just as impacted by the news. It’s what they’ve both wanted for so many years.

In the days leading up to their first game as opponents, David was almost excited enough to circle the game night on his calendar and letter it with Willy’s initials. They even go for dinner before, though not much gets said over the chatter of Willy’s teeth.

Then he’s on the other side of Willy’s snarls when he’s boarded.

He sees alphas bare their teeth, with no cage to keep Willy’s face from being marked up if they choose to jump at him.

It’s sad how quickly he gets used to it, how quickly it becomes normal for him. 

But even if their team allegiances change, his opinion of Willy does not. To see him mature from a boy into a man is the start of what becomes a confusing back-and-forth with his head and his heart. His biology has yet to come to the conclusion that Willy is the enemy. The whimpers he makes when he sees the bruises on Willy’s neck are one thing, but the urge to soothe those cuts with his tongue is another. 

The instant solution is to try and find an omega to share the night with, so he can stop teasing his brain with something it can’t have. He can never bring himself to do it, however. Not even with his newfound sexuality. In the state he’s in, rapidly approaching his prime, the last thing he needs is to “get his wires crossed”, as Brad says. 

There is nothing to gain from holding yourself back other than being behind everyone. In the major leagues, you say good-bye to who you once were. Boston is not his home, but it becomes  _ a _ home. In payment, he gives them one of the only things he’s ever had.

The crowd chants his name as he banks his first hat trick at TD Garden, bringing them one step closer to knocking the Maple Leafs out of the playoffs. A kid bangs on the glass, wearing his jersey and his numbers. 

He skates by the Bruins bench for fistbumps and joins in the shout. He looks up at the ceiling as he says it, hoping his father can hear him. Hoping that he’s proud.

But it’s a bittersweet victory. He takes no pleasure in being the reason that Willy frowns. Even with the divide of a rivalry between them, he still thinks of him as his best friend. It’s just the nature of the sport. They both have their reasons for playing. That doesn’t mean he isn’t grateful for everything Willy did to get him here. That’s one of the last things his father had said over the phone, to be kind to him. Because he couldn’t have asked for a better friend for his son.

Willy was there when David got the call. He was the only person allowed to see David cry. Nothing David will ever do can repay him for it. Ever.

To twist the knife deeper, after everything he’s done for David, is the hardest thing of all.

He does spend time with Willy outside the professional scene, even after last year’s unfortunate end for him. It’s the least David can do; maybe he’ll get his forgiveness.

They try to keep up the dinners before games. That’s about three times a year they can stomach sitting across from each other. It’s harder than it seems. Since Willy has made his debut, he hasn’t needed David’s advice or his encouragement, leaving them drained of things to talk about.

This time, they’re in Boston, about halfway into the season when things are starting to pick up. You think it’d give them a lot to talk about, but around thirty minutes in there’s nothing left to say, especially not after another Bruins victory in October. David wishes he could stuff it with tissue paper. It wasn’t always this way; it used to be that being in the presence of Willy could overwhelm every one of his senses. He used to need to bite his sweater sleeve to keep the words from gushing out. Now, he’s happy to have the sound of his fork scraping the plate to keep himself occupied.

Willy’s taste in food has changed in a few short years. David can see the jagged shapes in the back of his mouth that are the culprit. It used to be that he could point an item out on the menu and have Willy’s preference down. At the moment, he’s picking up the pieces, wondering when Willy got into eating peppers.

They have a good time, nonetheless. No one thinks to interrupt them for a picture and the servers are cordial. David is on the other side of Willy’s undivided attention for an hour. Like the good old days.

Really, nothing note-worthy happens until the bill is paid and it’s time to leave. That’s when they run into the crowd of people at the door. Thinking it’s the work of a celebrity appearance, David grabs Willy’s wrist and pushes their way through. There are so many people in the general vicinity that he doesn’t smell the omega in heat until the pair jumps out from the gutter and claw at each other, right in front of them.

The alpha’s scent hits next. Black charcoal. Willy lifts his scarf and shoves his nose into it to block out the smell. It takes David a second longer to snap out of it. Instinct is asking him to watch. He wants to see the outcome. Will the alpha win?

It doesn’t last. He scents Willy’s discomfort and turns just in time to see his eyes darken. He’s doesn’t look like he’s in a clear state of mind--it must be close to his heat. The last thing he needs is to beat up a bunch of people in downtown Boston, so David assumes responsibility.

He’s risking a bite to the neck by being so close to him in a state like this. Thankfully, Willy does not retaliate. David can see his blind trust looking back at him. He’s probably the only alpha in the continent that has his permission right now.

David wraps his arms around Willy and pushes them through the crowd. The blender of smells in the background makes it hard to think, but he keeps himself sane by focusing on the scent that pulse from the glands on Willy’s neck. It becomes sour, the more the  fight excites him. The change in scent reminds him of the time he walked in on Willy’s heat, how it was the undertow, trying to pull him under. Because once he’s under, he’s Willy’s.

Willy keeps his chin down. David can feel his muscles tense. One of Willy’s hands snakes around his side, squeezing. Testing. 

David picks up the pace. He doesn’t want to fight Willy, not here. The cement will scrape their knees and elbows. The brown snow, wet with grime and exhaust fumes, is not ideal. The other, less obvious concern, comes from his own growing insecurity. Willy’s packed on a lot more muscle since they were teens, what if he can’t fight him?

Luckily, he doesn’t get that question answered.

Once they’re out of the street and away from the noise, David can help Willy into the backseat of his car. Willy calms down considerably once he’s able to sit, but that could also be because David is throwing water and smelling salts in his direction. After a bit, Willy finally looks back at him with some certainty. His face is red. It’s hard to distinguish if it’s shame or embarrassment.

His disintegrated state makes for a very interesting story when David has to drop him off at his hotel. The Leafs look suspicious of him when he insists on walking Willy up to his room, though in a few seconds it’s apparent why he’s doing it. He doesn’t blame them: it reeks of imprinting or something more insidious. 

That’s not David and he knows none of the Leafs are stupid enough to think he’d take advantage of a friend like that. In the end, the group comes to the conclusion that Willy is dazed and nothing more. If it didn’t spark a flash heat, then the encounter probably compelled his actual heat to start sooner. David wouldn’t be surprised if he skips the next couple of games, just to be sure.

Before his teammates can take him to his room, Willy pushes his nose into David’s neck to say goodbye. Regardless of what happens, tomorrow they will be enemies. By then, any lingering scent of David will be wiped out. There might be a smudge or two on Willy’s shirt collar but David imagines that’ll be easy to dab at with cologne. 

He might not be looking for omega companionship but David is usually a good sport when it comes to going out and spending time with the guys. Tonight, however, he’s just not feeling it. What starts out as a media convention out west becomes an omega beauty pageant, all because they let in a group of influencers from another sports club for pictures and autographs. 

It would have been completely manageable, if not for the open bar. It may be a sponsored event but it’s not formal, and that’s where the problems come in. Some of the participants are brushing shoulders with him too often for it to be accidental and rather than be roused by the smell of omega, it just makes him want to run. 

Luckily, Zee is feeling much of the same way and instead of David making a dramatic exit by himself, the two can leave together. Of course, the second Zee sees his curled upper lip, David knows there’s going to be a talk when they got back. Zee somehow cohabits a sphere of both drunken camaraderie and teacher and it sounds like an incompatible merge, but credit to him, it works. He’s hating it right now: that silent judgement.

They’re watching programming on the television, God knows what it is, when it feels like Zee’s scent becomes stronger, trying to block his out. David is on the ground, chin resting on his knees. He isn’t even looking at Zee when he begins to speak to him, as innocuous as a mother checking in on her child after school.

“You got an omega back home?” Zee asks.

“Nah.”

“But you have someone?”

David closes his eyes. His hands are resting on his stomach. “No, I don’t have an omega.”

“I don’t mean omega. You act like you have someone. Are you waiting for them?”

“I don’t haf’ta wait for anyone.”

When he hears the sheets adjust, he fears that Zee is going to come closer and make this personal, which is the last thing he needs right now.

He shoves words between them to pad out the distance. “I don’t have nobody. I’m not lying. No one has ever, uh, my attention--no one has ever been in my attention.”

Zee rumbles from above.

“Promise me if you find someone, you’ll go for them. Alpha, omega, I don’t care,” Zee says. “I hate seeing you alone.”

David’s voice pops. “Sure.” 

Zee moves on relatively quickly. He doesn’t dwell in the space where your heart should be, and treats everything like it’s ordinary. David dwells on that fact; maybe that’s how he gets in. It’s never stopped him before.

But even if Zee is done with the conversation, it sticks around and haunts David. He’s not owned. But if he’s not owned, then why does he f eel collared? 

In confidence, right as Zee is leaving, David catches him for another word.

“How do I know if someone is right?” he asks, in confidence.

It takes Zee a second to think of something to say to him. “You won’t, at first.” Zee claps his shoulder. “But be patient with yourself. You promised me.”

David shrugs, eyes down at the carpet.

Zee leaves him just as a congestion is beginning to grow in David’s chest. It’s so thick that he can’t breathe. No amount of coughing disturbs the sizeable lump in the back of his throat. And it’s not like he can talk to anyone about it. He doesn’t even know why it’s happening. 

As with every other instance when he’s uncomfortable or in pain before bed, the next best option is to play some videos off Youtube and gradually drift away. A lot of his recommendations have something to do with various Bruins’ highlights or commentary  tracks but watching them will only dig  the hole in his chest deeper. The videos chase him as he deep-dives, trying to find something mundane enough that he can cancel out everything else.

The Leafs are hardly the picture of a relaxing night but he sees the twenty-nine on the thumbnail and succumbs to his own curiosity. If anything, watching Willy play brings a thickening sense of nostalgia. Just looking at the way he holds his stick up in celebration aches with the pain of a former life. David can imagine the scent he’s putting out: sweet, like those menthol cigarettes his mother smoked. 

Here, the omegas smell like freshly ground airport coffee and shucked corn. It’s pleasant, but not something he would want to smell every day of the year. He has to be careful with scent, as it’s something you have to marry along with the person. You wake up with it on the other side of your pillow. It will become your home. How do you make that decision? How do you make that commitment, when you could grow tired of it, and by them?

Willy is the exception. Years later, David remembers the composition of scent and more importantly, it still interests him. He smells the same as the candies in stores that David could never afford to buy as a child. He treasured the moments he could access that better life, and how short-lived the pleasure of it was. It was never enough. He and his friends would line the street corners, looking in, wanting more than his share.

Willy is only a fleeting vision. David had more time with him than most and he still wants more. It’s greed. It’s gluttony. Yet, it feels safe. If not for his responsibility to the team, he might give everything up to curl up in his arms and feel that safety again. 

He falls asleep with the scent on the mind, swashing in and out of his nostrils to the beat of his heart. And he might not be young, but he’s sated.

Tensions are already running high in Game Six without Torey running high on alpha pheromones, stinking up the ice with a sense of excitement that keeps the arena occupied. It has the adverse effect of pumping up the Leafs, who have more teeth than usual. They’re not afraid to take stupid penalties if it means grinding the Bruins into the boards, threatening to dislocate a shoulder or jaw. David keeps his sights set on making the puck hit the back of the net, although he can’t say he isn’t tempted to join in on a couple of occasions when it gets especially irritating.

The  _ other _ adverse effect goes undeclared for a large part of the game. David isn’t even watching when it happens: when Brad gets a breakaway. There are sprays of ice kicked up as the remaining Leafs and Bruins chase him. Willy gets the closest, pouring his sweat and tears into shortening the distance. 

He goes at it a little too hard. After Andersen makes the save, Brad slows down enough to reroute and skate around the back of the net. Willy, for whatever reason, isn’t as lucky. His skates must have gotten tangled--or maybe Brad was in the way--but regardless, his legs give out under him and he slams into the boards. David only hears the noise and immediately goes cold.

Willy, thank goodness, raises his head. He shakily tries to get to his feet. Then his eyes go wide. He stops. He arches his back, then reverts to kneeling on the ice. One hand cups his midsection.

Is something broken? No--the scent hits them then, carried on an air draft. It makes David’s fingers itch. His eyes widen. Before he’s even realized it, he’s jumped the bench. It doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things: the refs have already blown the play dead. The ushers are descending from the gates, trying to evacuate the people closest to the ice. 

David stops himself just short of halfway, coming back to himself for a second. Willy is a dismal sight, but for a reason. Everything has a reason. As is the natural order of things, he’s not the only one with his ears pricked.

Whenever he plays this scenario out in his head, he’s always the first one to go. Yet, the real-life equivalent doesn’t account for his lacking courage. He hangs back, like a coward. Although it feels harsh to say that at first, he sees alphas half his size skate forward without much hesitation. It multiplies the damage.

Up until that second, he could reasonably take on the challenge. But he waits too long. One of Willy’s teammates gets his approval to start the courting fight. David is behind the imaginary line that makes him a member of the audience. All those years of hoping, wasted.

The alpha takes off his helmet, revealing a head of curly, unkempt dirty blond hair. David can’t help himself from scowling. Michael won’t like that. He’s probably watching, knowing him. If he isn’t, then someone probably has him on speakerphone. That’s his boy out there, about to do what he always asked of him. About to make him proud. 

David joins the semi-circle of Leafs by the faceoff circle. He’s the only Bruin there, although some of his teammates hang back behind him. They’re all leaves on a single vine, swaying, lurching forward when Willy goes for the first blow and connects with the alpha’s face.

Kapanen’s approach is something new, using his speed-based assets to work Willy into a state of confusion. The fact he keeps his distance shows that he knows a thing or two about Willy, which makes the fear in David’s heart grow colder. Kapanen is not a stranger to him in name; Willy has talked about him too much for that.

But friendships don’t exist here. The approach gets Willy riled up. He begins to slash at every direction, trying to grab a handful that he can use. David can see his palms vibrate. The second they get something, they will begin to grind. If they wanted to, they could probably crush bone. 

Kapanen keeps getting closer, trading small blows before darting away. It’s like watching a child wave a metal fork in front of an outlet, ready to poke it in. Willy is not the kind of omega you want to taunt with, not like this. He sucks in his teeth and cuts his eyes. 

In the end, Willy doesn’t have to do any lasting damage. He just needs one vulnerable moment. And he gets it. Kapanen turns his back the next time he comes close, and Willy leaps on him. He forces his knee down on Kapanen’s shoulder, arms reaching in front to claw at his eyes. David can almost imagine how the alpha’s upper arm is straining, the shoulder ready to pop out of its socket. 

That very well might be what happens. Kapanen wails. It’s not a small cry that exists to stroke Willy’s ego. It’s pain. The harder he presses, the louder Kapanen becomes. He sprawls out, the ice curling under his nails. 

After hearing him scream, Willy gets up to let him scurry out from underneath. Kapanen doesn’t look back, having learned his lesson. Granted, he could have stayed to continue to fight if he wanted. Though, it appears the chance to lie with Willy is not worth a dislocated arm. Or two.

Willy has a repeat performance with another alpha, this one David doesn’t even try to get the name of. He’s lanky and thin. Willy throws him around like a paper bag. He too backs out, a lot faster than Kapanen.

The other brown-haired alpha that Willy hangs around with is not here. Injured, they say. The Leafs in the semicircle don’t look too keen on replacing him. Kapanen is still licking his wounds, over at the benches with a trainer. 

There is no better way to frame such a good opportunity. It’s on David to make the final call. If he waits too long, they will bring in the specialists to drug Willy back into a socially acceptable state. Any hope of reconciliation will be gone. If in the future he tries again, Willy could reject him on the grounds of him not being strong enough. It’s a very real fear.

David takes in a deep breath and holds it. He’s back in Willy’s bedroom with both of Willy’s wrists in each hand. And Willy is begging.

Just as the specialists touch the ice, he pushes forward on his blades. The spectators peer from behind the glass, as if it will protect them from the immiscible scent of alpha and omega. This is  _ entertainment _ in so many places of the world. There are thousands, maybe even millions of eyes watching David approach. 

David balances on the back of his skates. Willy sneers, turning his body toward him. There’s a twinkle in the back of his eyes. It could be the recognition of David, but it could also be the recognition of a worthy opponent. 

David drops his gloves. Willy bares his teeth.

They tear into each other. Willy fights dirty. He grabs at David’s head, threatening to rip it off, helmet and all. David unclasps the chin strap and throws it to the ground. His hair sticks out in every direction. His mouth is wide open, teeth itching.

It’s harder to fight on skates than with socks and shoes. It’s a bit more toothless than a regular courting fight, where there’s no under armour and padding to protect you. It’s only at times when Willy swings at him and the blow connects when he gets a sense of how hard it must be to do this on the street. He has to step back before Willy pummels him into a pulp.

Willy is the one that loses his balance first, dragging David to the ice with him. He has David’s collar in hand, nails close to his neck where they can tear open a hole.

They fall in a bad position that puts David on top of Willy, grinding his muscles into the hard ice. Willy emits a moan, curling in on himself. His brow wrinkles, his eyes squeezing shut. He keeps crying when David presses down on his chest. It gets to the point where the referees look like they want to intervene. How will they explain to Michael Nylander that his son died from asphyxiation on the ice?

Michael knows that that isn’t happening, because Michael knows that Willy is trying to play dead. And David knows too, because if Willy was hurt, he’d be squealing.

The second Willy realizes that David isn’t going to fall for it, his eyes snap open. The fight renews, although Willy is in a rough predicament. If David had stood up, Willy could have pulled at his legs and flipped him onto his stomach. He doesn’t have that option now. He tries to bring a knee up, only to remember David is on top. 

He’s cornered. It brings the worst out of him. Willy thrashes. He twists his neck to the side and sinks his teeth into David’s arm. The padding absorbs the cut. The pivot of Willy’s shoulder gives him enough leverage to push himself up. His nails press into David’s hand as he does so. 

They trade a few more blows. Willy gets his hand loose and slashes David down the side of the face, just short of his eye. David retaliates by rushing at Willy’s stomach, throwing him over his shoulder so that Willy is suspended in the air and then falling to the ice with a clean smack. David knows his game and he knows better than to get on his level. If he tries fighting Willy with claws and teeth, he will lose.

So he tries a different approach and tosses him around. Willy can handle it and when he can’t, there’s padding to do the work for him. David reduces Willy to his knees over and over, until a bad chip makes Willy spasm. 

David climbs on his back, pressing down Willy’s head with one hand. He keeps it light. The side of Willy’s face is already bruising. The back of his ear has a cut. It won’t take much more for Willy to bend. David already can’t remember half of the fight, but he can see jersey sliced in two up the belly. His knee is exposed, all because Willy tried to kick him with skates on.

All of that is secondary. Once David is on top, he doesn’t let Willy buck him off. He squeezes Willy’s hips with both thighs. Now’s the time to either submit or summon what remains of the fight within you. Now’s when it gets  vicious .

Only Willy has ideas of his own. Under David's arms and in his protection, he goes limp.

Amid the chanting and noise all around, David almost doesn’t realize his victory until the referees finally intervene and take them both away. The pair is escorted to the Bruins tunnel, where they are then led to the medical wing for inspection.

When there, they begin to ask David questions, ticking boxes that match his description. A damp cloth is thrown on the back of his neck, over his swollen scent glands. They give them ice packs for their knuckles and a capsule for Willy to swallow. It’s a lot of in and out for those next ten minutes. It doesn’t give him a minute to realize what’s happening, or to bond with his omega.

David’s head is spinning. Licks of sweat dot his brow. It’s dehydration, they tell him. His body is trying to push out so much scent that it’s overwhelming him. And yet, counterintuitive to that, he refuses any water. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep it down. He throws his head back, feeling the world propel in circles around him. He can’t feel his toes.

When they can’t get any fluids in him, the specialists decide to leave them alone. David only registers the door closing behind them on the way out. There are no more competing scents in the air to confuse him. 

“You won,” Willy says. David looks down at him. 

Willy’s eyes are wide. Not in surprise but in awe. They read David like he’s his gospel.

“I didn’t think I’wud,” David replies. He clears his throat, trying to help the words make a bit more sense. His surroundings are wheeling back into focus. He’s nailed to the examination table.

“I  _ knew _ you would.” Willy grabs his arm and squeezes.

David slots his eyes to the right. “Did you lose on purpose?”

Willy looks offended, and rightly so. “Of course not. You probably separated my shoulder, throwing me around like that.”

“Did I?”

“I don’t know.” Willy presses up on him, without much regard for personal space. “But you won. I know that. You outsmarted me,” he rasps. 

“But we practiced, remember? I didn’t outsmart you.”

Willy grins at him, like that was the plan all along. He doesn’t even try to obscure the truth. It’s out in the open, looking at David, waiting for his approval. 

David’s eyes feel huge. His fears are set free. Everything is free. It hits him then that this was no accidental acquisition. It’s the requited love of years ago, anointed with innocence. Willy might be older but his face is the same. It reminds him of easier times, and loneliness, and the sucking feeling in his gut when he’s alone with his best friend.

David presses their heads together. There’s no cage to stop him from pressing a small kiss into the strands of blond hair. He holds Willy as close to him as he physically can. He sinks into that love, warm from every angle. And it smells like peppermint.

Willy sighs underneath him, content.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://cursivecherrypicking.tumblr.com/)
> 
> in this universe, fighting is commonplace. omegas pick their mates by fighting them, and if an alpha can beat them they are deemed worthy. omegas decide who they fight and when. they are the dominant of the two dynamics. in one such courting fight, willy plays dead and acts as though he's being hurt. david makes it clear that he knows willy is trying to fake him out and would get off of him if he knew willy was actually hurt. the death of david's father is mentioned offhandedly but has no real bearing on the story's progression and he is not mentioned by name.


End file.
